Moments
by midnight-blue
Summary: Even the purest, happiest moments can't last forever.
1. Samantha

**Title:** Moments 

**Author:** Kristin 

**Spoilers:** For FO mostly, as this fic stems off the season finale. And some mention of various other characters from previous cases 

**Disclaimer:** The characters in the story are the sole property of Hank Steinberg, Jerry Bruckheimer, and CBS. No copyright infringement is intended. 

**Rating:** PG-13 

**Summary:** Even the purest, happiest moments can't last forever. 

**A/N:** First and foremost, I want to thank Eolivet and Red Creeper for just being so absolutely amazing and reading this over before I posted it. I wasn't sure I even wanted to, so I thank the both of you for your encouragement, your advice, your support. Words can't convey my appreciation. You're both so awesome. Also, for the purpose of this story, the lapse of time between scenes is meant to be vague and ambiguous. I'd also like to thank Nick, who's made me a better person. Here, the words escape me. Enjoy the read! 

* 

There were moments. 

Moments that defined your life in its simplicity, in its ease and luxury. Moments that you remembered, that stood out, that you looked upon in contemplation years later with a pride in your heart, a twinkle in your eye. 

When you first learned to ride a bike; your first day of school, your first kiss, first date, first dance. 

Your first love. 

Each moment precious and valuable. Each moment tucked carefully away beneath the fabric of lies that scarred you, truths you clung to, and people you hid from where false platitudes reminded you of what you wanted, what you couldn't have. 

Then there were moments you wanted to forget. 

And these were the ones you never could. 

* 

It started simply enough. 

She had grown up in a quintessential home in a simple little town in Main Street U.S.A. with big dreams and big ideas and enough ambition in her childish mind to accomplish the unattainable, to succeed in everything she thought she couldn't. 

Her childhood was littered with exciting birthdays, perfect holidays, cookouts and fireworks and enough photographs on the wall to convince anyone, even her, that her happy life was just that. Beneath the surface, beneath the carefully constructed facade her parents had built around their home was a troubled marriage, a lost little girl whose simple brown eyes constantly gazed at her father on so many nights, pleading for his acceptance, his love. She asked him so many times in so many ways it had become ingrained in her, a part of her. She'd pretend that one day he'd smile back and hug her and maybe take her out to that ice cream parlor across the street. 

But it never seemed enough and the years came, as they always do, bringing with them the realization that her simple need to feel his love, to feel what it meant to have a father, was just as childish and silly as her notion of one day escaping this quintessential little town in Main Street U.S.A. with those silly little dreams that amounted to a speck of dirt in the broad scheme of things. 

So one day, she stopped. Stopped looking up at him with her lost eyes. Stopped waiting for him to come home and read her a bedtime story, stopped waiting for him to tuck her in. She stopped waiting for his love. And so she ran. 

It was easier to run. 

Staying meant she had to deal with it. Deal with the fact that her father was anything but, deal with the idea that her parents stayed together because they had to. Deal with the yelling at night when the house had gone quiet and listen to her mother's gentle sobs as she wished for a life she couldn't have. 

It never stayed easy though, and she realized -- when she saw her mother that night at the bus station -- that it took more strength to stay than it did to leave. 

That idea worked against her now. Perhaps it's what made Jack stay with Marie, because it was right and proper that he fight to make it work, to make it right. 

What she was counting on, in that little thread of hope she still carried with her, was that, though it might take more strength for him to stay with Marie than to leave...it was worth the struggle in the end, to him, if he could have her, could have Samantha. 

She wanted it to be that way. 

* 

She memorizes the beeps and hisses at night when the honks and sirens and swears of the city fade into a dull hum against the backdrop of her quiet tomb. 

Many things fade in and out of focus at night, when only the moon provides a substantial light and she's left alone to wonder, to think. She thinks too much now. 

She watches the monitor, the little green lines that move up and down in a rhythmic march, bouncing an eerie melody against her ears. 

She thinks too much. 

Of white walls and antiseptic, of beeps and hisses, of little green lines that move up and down. In dreams, she thinks of heartbeats and blood; blood so red it stains her fingers, her clothes, her eyes. She thinks of her little green lines again, of the little marches they practice, of the lines coming further and further apart until they're flat. 

And then she stops. The blood fades away into those blinding white walls. The antiseptic ceases stinging her lungs, the beeps aren't quite as loud. 

She forgets his voice. 

She knows then, knows this is what it feels like to die. To slip away on the wind, like a leaf caught in the autumn breeze. 

Then she wakes. Not peacefully, not spasmodically; just anxiously, alertly. It's dark when she wakes and she just lays there again, this time content to hear the beeps and hisses. 

Because it means she's alive. 

It scares her sometimes in the dark. She thinks about bookstores and guns and Barry Mashburn, whose sad eyes always float mere inches from her, never leaving, never rippling away on the current. 

It's a pattern now, the break of dawn. She knows the moment the first ray bounces off the window, settles across her blanket, strikes the little part of glass from the vase of flowers Danny brought. 

She memorizes the dots and lines, the rainbow of colors awash in that stream of sunlight, always reaching for it in her mind, wishing the darkness away. It always takes too long, the minutes tick by on that clock she never bothers to look at. 

It scares her. 

She thinks too much in the dark. 

She wonders if they'd miss her. 

If he'd miss her. 

* 

She thinks of love because she's lonely. 

And loneliness always brings with it that overwhelming reminder, to her, that she will forever be trapped in its net, tangled between the silky strands of a web that pulls her in, sucks her dry, and leaves her wanting to feel, if only for a second, the sheer sensation of being loved. 

It's elusive to her most days. 

All the great poets and writers weaved tales of triumph against adversity, of light in dark tunnels, of heroes and kings, and good guys consistently beating bad guys. It seems to her, as she thinks of love, that even the great poets and writers of history reached most desperately for the best words, the right words, the most beautiful words when it came to love. Because love is, was, and always would be, life in its purest, rawest, most passionate and simplest form. 

It encumbered moments: happy, sad, painful, angry; it engulfed the streams of adversity, pushing aside the greatest obstacles; it broke the boundaries of impossible and improbable and made all things simply be. 

And yet, in all its glory, love is, was, and always would be the most painful force and emotion she's ever faced. 

She knows this above all else. She first gave her heart to a man, no a boy, a simple boy. Because he thought she was nice and pretty and maybe they could have cute kids together. For most of her life she had merely blended into the backdrop of high school until he noticed her one day. He'd seemed so real and alive to her, ignited an emotion she'd never felt. Because he was the first person in her life, aside from her mother, who had ever looked at her as though she were special. It had meant something then and it meant something now, all these years later, coming from a man whose life was split between two extremes. 

A man with dark, pained eyes and a soft, firm voice who speaks her name on the wind like it's a poem, a song, something only she deserves. 

She wonders if it would've been easier to never meet him. To never see him and want him, to never fall in love. 

It's always easier to her. To look back and digress and wish away her mistakes. It's easier to run away and far too easy to simply regard love as an afterthought. 

Her leg starts to ache at night and she glances at the limb in the darkness, its dull throbs coming just when she wants to think of anything but Barry Mashburn, guns, Jack Malone, and tiny bookstores where men who want to forget you whisk you away and give themselves in your place because maybe those silly dreams aren't that silly after all. 

It hurts too much to open up and put yourself out there, exposed and vulnerable. It's easier to bleed when your heart's on your sleeve. It's easier to run when you've got nothing to make you stay. It's easier to never fall in love in the first place. 

But for all the reasons she knows she shouldn't, for all the reasons she wishes she hadn't, it hurts worse, she thinks, to be alone. 

* 

"Helen of Troy." 

She groans softly, burrowing into the pillow as Danny's voice floats across the room. 

"Danny, why are you talking about Greek women when you should be bringing me flowers and chocolate and telling me to get well soon?" 

He smiles and leans back, a twinkle dancing in his eyes. 

"Because I already brought you flowers, the chocolates are coming tomorrow, I have told you to get well soon, and I just started reading the book about the Greek civilization you bought me for my birthday." 

She's silent for a moment and he disregards it, continuing the light banter he knows she appreciates to ease the tedium of her extended hospital stay. 

"The face that could stop a thousand ships. Quite a woman, huh?" 

She's still silent and he leans forward now, trying to see her face beneath the thin hospital pillow. 

"Sam?" 

She rolls over then, a look in her eyes he can't quite discern, and waits for her to speak. 

"The bookstore." 

"What?" 

"I bought that book at that place -- Table of Contents. I bought it there last month. I, I used to shop there sometimes. I liked it there. It was small and quiet, the people were friendly." 

She pauses for a moment, a far-off look fogging her eyes. 

"It was safe." 

"Sam--" Danny leans forward, a gentle hand reaching out to pat her arm, to reassure her, of what, he doesn't know. 

She looks down for a moment, shaking herself from the haze and fakes a smile she hopes he'll buy for now because it's late, it's lonely, and she wants to sleep, though, not really. 

"It's okay, I just -- I guess I was just, you know, thinking about it." 

"It's only been two days, Samantha. I wouldn't doubt you're thinking about. In fact, I'd be concerned if you weren't. If you want to talk--" 

She shakes her head. "No, no. I mean, I'm kinda tired, you know? I don't sleep much at night." 

He wonders if he should believe her, then notices the dark bags under her eyes; a stark contrast to her white skin, and stands up, content to let her sleep away the memories. 

"Well, I'm here if you want to talk." 

"Yeah. Thanks, Danny." 

He nods and hesitates a second, still wondering if there's more than she's letting on, but pushes it aside and leaves. 

Samantha sighs, running a suddenly shaky hand through her bangs, and leans against the soft pillow. She doesn't sleep at night, but she doesn't sleep during the day either. 

She thinks too much. 

* 

It's like clockwork now. She wonders if they plan it this way. One comes this day, the other comes tomorrow. Today it's Vivian's turn and little is said between the minutes she supposes she's obligated to be there. 

She knows Vivian cares on some level, because they're a team and they have this rapport and symmetry, they're like a well-oiled machine spinning out a multitude of good ideas and good creations and saving, for the most part, those that need to be. 

She knows Vivian cares. She just hates the silence. 

"Reggie's starting eighth grade in a few months." 

They both hate the silence so they resort to this: the formality, the traditional discussion about familiars and easy subjects that take little effort and little thought and kill that time between the minutes she's supposed to stay. 

"Oh? That's great, Viv. Is he excited?" 

"Mostly. I think what's he really waiting for is highschool." 

"Yeah. The 'golden years'. Mine were uneventful." It's a lie, but it's easy, and she finds herself resorting once again to the path of least resistance. 

"Mine too. Although, I did meet my husband in highschool, so I guess there's something to be said for that." 

"Yeah. Must be nice." 

"Yeah." 

They lapse into a silence again and Vivian checks her watch. 

"I'm gonna go. I need to pick Reggie up. You need to rest." 

Sam smiles, appreciates the sentiment, and nods her friend away. 

Rest. 

* 

Moments. 

Her whole life is wrapped up in moments and memories. 

It's lonely and quiet again and she allows herself this flight from reality. 

She remembers her mother first, as she starts. Her hair was silky and fine, free from the constraints of modern-day hair torture, free from the need to curl it and perm it and blow dry it until the ends were frayed and disjointed. No, her hair was perfect. She was beautiful, simple, kind. Her eyes would light up when Samantha entered the room, her focus solely on this life she'd been privileged to bring into the world. 

Her perfume smelled of strawberries and lilacs, clung to the walls and carpets, and pillows, and still lingers, even now, in Samantha's dreams. 

Then there was Ryan. Her first love, her husband. It's easy, she supposes, to look back in retrospect and always remember what you shouldn't have done. Maybe Ryan was a mistake, but she knows she needed him on some level. He defined her. 

The middle of this journey is scattered and disjointed like a puzzle that's nearly finished, missing only those last two pieces. She remembers men; men who used her, forgot her, tossed her aside in a week after the fun was over. She knows it became familiar and simple and she wishes it hadn't. 

Then there was Quantico and a purpose sprung into her life, an excitement. 

Jack Malone. 

He came next. 

He came always. 

He wasn't her first love, not even her last love. He is, was, and always would be her great love. 

She remembers him. It's easy to remember him, easier than anything. 

* 

It's quiet so she hears him above the hums and beeps. He slides in as he usually does. When he's happy, he has this purposeful walk, like he knows where he's going. When he's sad, he simply shuffles along. 

He's dressed simply, no tie, no suit. Just jeans and an old t-shirt, his wedding ring stinging her heart as it bounces off the moonlight. 

"You should be asleep." 

She whispers. He leans forward to see her, a smile forming at the corner of his lips. 

"So should you." 

Her eyes flutter for a moment. 

"You should be at home, Jack." 

She wants to pretend he shouldn't, but too many moments in her life have been built on lies and half-truths and she wants to be more than her ghosts. 

"So should you, Sam." He whispers in a voice that conveys all of the guilt he's been carrying around since that day when a simple drop should've been just that: simple. 

"Let's not do this, Jack. It wasn't your fault." 

He doesn't speak for a moment, his eyes travel up and down her body, painfully stopping on her leg. 

"I heard you were in surgery for two hours." 

She nods, rolling onto her back so she can see him better in the darkness. 

"It nicked the artery, so I was lucky, but there was a lot of tissue damage and it fractured my femur. So I'll be Samantha 'hop-a-long' Spade for a while." 

She sees a smile spread across his face this time and eases herself into a comfort she's been wanting the past three days. 

"Does it hurt?" 

The truth. 

"Yeah." 

He leans closer now, his weathered hand running through her silky hair in graceful strokes, willing a fog to take her away briefly, away from him, from this pain. 

"Barry told us where Sydney was. I think he's going to be okay." 

Her eyes flutter again, his caresses easing her into a misty semi-consciousness she's trying to fight away. 

"And what about us, Jack?" 

Her voice is soft now, faint and fading with each stroke. He waits a minute to answer, her eyelids slowly drifting shut. 

"I don't know, Sam." 

* 

She knows work won't be the same. Maybe it never was and she lived under this illusion of normalcy, understanding that she wanted him, understanding she couldn't have him, that he was married. 

Then they would leave the confines of that office, that place where Jack Malone was a happily married man with the usual baggage to go along with the middle-aged man who devotes half of himself to his family and the other half to his job. 

They would leave and that normalcy would break and crack and Jack Malone suddenly became exactly who he was: an unhappily married, middle-aged man with his heart stretched across the chasm of right and wrong, of need and want, obligation and duty; where hearts were broken and love was a mystery. 

She knows though, that it can happen no more. That his solemn caress on that bench months ago was his final release, his final goodbye. 

Yet, as she thinks, she's divided between that moment, that moment when she knew in her heart all the love she hadn't wanted to give away to a man she couldn't have was being denied, and the moment not so long ago when she'd laid near death in that tiny bookstore, needing that man again; that moment when he'd come in and whispered to her and carried her away from her prison. 

Her knight in shining armor. 

Her cliche fairy tale. 

Moments. 

All her life is wrapped up in simple moments and experiences; loves that should've never been, breaths she suddenly struggles to take. 

She tries to understand what got her here in this moment. 

Her leg aches again and the pain is still raw and powerful, shocking her fully into a life she wishes would leave her alone. 

She waits for an absolution that will never come. 

* 

"Well, it'll take some getting used to." 

Her arms cling tightly to the wooden crutches as she moves along, testing the waters, settling into what will be her life for at least the next month. 

Danny sips his water next to her, watching as she moves around, pushing aside the grimace fighting its way to the surface. 

"I gotta get back to work, but call if you need anything." 

She nods as she settles onto the couch, relieved to sit, to be free. 

"You know, we haven't really talked about it, but, you scared the hell out of us, Sam." 

This surprises her for a moment and she looks up, his seriousness startling her. 

"You scared the hell out of Jack." 

A look crosses his features and she doesn't know what to make of it, what to think or feel. 

"Danny--" 

"I'm not saying it's right, but I miss seeing you happy and I'd wager a guess that Jack has at least something to do with that. All I'm saying is you scared him okay?" 

He pulls his keys out of his jacket, waving a goodbye as he moves to step outside. 

"So get well soon." 

He locks the door behind him, his surprise that she allows him a key still astonishing him, and leaves just as silently as he came. 

* 

"I thought you'd want this." 

Her fingers trace the curves and bumps of her badge, settling on the face, unfamiliar, staring up at her. It's her, she supposes, at one point in her life. But the innocence, the idealogical glint shining through the plastic cover is odd and unrecognizable. 

"Thanks, Martin." 

"Listen, Sam, I was thinking maybe I could order us a pizza-" 

Her eyes meet his and stop his thoughts. 

"Thanks, but, I'm just -- I'm happy to be home and I kinda just want to relax-" 

"Oh yeah, sure. I understand. Listen, if you need anything-" 

He leaves it because she's memorized the ending. She wonders if they practice it before they come, varying the exact timing and words they use, but consistently offering to be there, to help. She wonders if she should, just once, ask for that help. 

"Yeah. Well, thanks again." 

He smiles and she catches a brief twinge of something, a defeat. 

* 

"I went there today." 

This stops her hand in its movement around the rim of her soda glass. Images flash before her; Barry, Fran, Ted, books, tears, blood and guns. 

She dreams about them, each one distinctly occupying a separate night, consuming her. This night, she'll dream of guns. 

Of smoke that gently escapes from the barrel, that burns your nostrils and chokes your lungs and releases those tiny bullets which hit you and embed themselves halfway between your tissue, your blood, and your heart. 

Her leg is elevated on the coffee table, no books underneath this time, just an old edition of Time magazine. 

"Sam?" 

Jack situates himself on the couch next to her, hesitating before he touches her arm, wondering if he should. 

"Was it hot?" She asks. 

It's an odd question and he worries, not for the first time. 

She thinks about the heat; about the sweat that ran in slow droplets down her back, providing a glue between her skin and shirt. She thinks of the hours in that bookstore, thinks of the moment just before she left and the nagging question in the back of her mind as she'd wondered if she'd ever make it out alive. 

She thinks about his voice: distant and faraway, coming closer and louder as a purpose, his purpose to reach her, fueled his stride. She remembers his voice calling for her, soothing her, assuring her that she would leave, that he'd be back. 

She remembers his hand as it touched her skin. Unlike its normal touch. It was melancholy somehow; desperate and passionate and filled with all the words that meant goodbye. 

She remembers being cold in that moment. Being lifted and suddenly warmed once again, though briefly. 

She wonders if it's still hot in that bookstore; if it still smells like smoke and blood and the lingering scent of death beckoning in those tiny cracks in the ceiling where everything blurred and she started forgetting to breathe. 

"No, Sam. It wasn't hot. Listen, have you been sleeping?" 

Sleep. 

She forgets that too. It gets lost, she supposes, trapped between the nightmares and reality. 

No release. 

No escape. 

"Jack, do you love me?" 

It's easy to ask questions she knows will only end in pain when nothing more can be lost from her. 

His hand moves in a pattern up and down her arm and she wishes goodbyes could be easy. 

She waits. She always waits for him. In her past, her present, her future. 

She knows a part of her will always be in that little bookstore on a simple street in New York, waiting for him to come and save her. To save her from blood and guns and Barry Mashburn and heat so strong you feel it in your bones. She will be unwavering, immutable, resolute in her decision to stay there, just in case. Knowing he'll come for her someday. Then realizing he never will. 

"It's not that simple, Sam." 

He doesn't look at her because his lies have become his truths and he doesn't know which is which anymore. He doesn't know left from right, up from down, need from want. 

He needs the easy life, the right life. The life of duty and responsibility to his children, his spouse. He needs it because a part of him, throughout his life, fantasized and dreamt about it. 

He wants Samantha. He always does and always will. 

Sometimes it isn't enough. 

"Why can't it be?" 

"Because I have to let you go." 

"You have to or you want to?" 

"I never _want_ to let you go." 

His hand moves to her skin now, the soft spot just above her eyes. She closes them briefly, thinking of ways this conversation will make sense to that part of her heart screaming for acknowledgement, acceptance. 

"Do you believe in fate, Sam?" 

She can only nod for now. 

"I was meant to find you. I was meant to know you. There's so many paths and curves and bumps in the road, but I have faith that sometimes, even the lost will find their way back. I was meant to love you." 

This shocks her and her eyes shimmer back at him, unshed tears waiting to spill over. 

"I just can't now." 

She doesn't know what it means, what to think, or feel, so she says all she can right now. 

"I'll wait for you." 

Their parting kiss is bittersweet. And much like his touch in that little bookstore on that simple street in New York, it's filled with empty promises, broken dreams, fractured hearts, and all those words that mean goodbye. 

So she waits for him. 

She waits for him in that little bookstore. 

Part of her will never leave. 

* 

Her mind drifts now. No more hums or beeps to break the monotony of an apartment pleading for activity and people to move around it. 

She thinks about Ted and Fran and Libby and even Richard because they all shared something in those few hours together. 

It was largely an experience founded on sheer terror, the equal urgency they all felt at just wanting to be out of there, far away from the shrilly ringing telephone, the overturned table, the smoking gun, and the books. So many books. She used to go in there on her days off, she remembers. 

Another moment to dwell on. 

Her hands would float over the tops of the paperbacks, slowly brushing through the new pages, the scent of innocence and mystery at these new items filling her with a desire to get away, to lose herself in its pages and free herself from the restraints of work and life. 

She remembers smiling whimsically at the poems, each line leaping up at her, wrapping around her mind, her heart, playing upon those emotions she wishes she'd pushed aside long ago. She remembers thinking of Jack as she read those sappy little poems, of knights and maidens and fairy tales with happy endings. 

Ted was innocent when she first saw him; young and carefree, eager to help and please and simply show you that one book that perhaps you'd read once or twice or three times until the passages were familiar and you could quote them at the dinner table when idle chitchat grew tedious. 

She remembers Ted two weeks ago now; scared, still young, no longer carefree, but scarred, forever bound to the experience they'd all endured in that little bookstore. 

And Fran, whose quiet voice spoke of a theater she remembers seeing once on a day off. It was summer, she remembers; hot and humid and begging for an escape. The theater was there, in front of her, air-conditioned and cheap and perhaps even fun on a boring day off. The theater had been open then, of course, and she'd ventured in, unaware of what she'd find, unaware of anything relevant to theater because she'd generally fancied movies. She remembers seeing Fran there, working on stage between acts. Her face was joyful and full of prospect, wishing to be on that stage someday, soon perhaps. 

The theater's closed now. 

Fran's far-away statement drifts back to her, the moment between hours as they sat in that bookstore wishing to get out and suddenly finding they could cling to each other. 

Libby's face, before the bookstore; quiet and innocent, a tad naive, though endearing. Her drive to help Sydney, to be there in the fullest capacity invoking a respect for her from all involved. 

Her desperate tears drift into Sam's perception now. Tears for the victims, for Sydney, for Nicole, for Samantha whose blood stained the carpet of a quiet, safe, little bookstore on a simple street in New York. 

Richard. She wishes he wouldn't have reached for her gun, wishes for many things. Perhaps it was meant to happen. Perhaps Jack had to be there, for some reason, because his moment, his moment to realize that life was more than just duties and obligations, had come, had hit him, had pulled him into that little bookstore. 

She remembers Barry most of all. She remembers his pain, his desperation. What she remembers most, what haunts her at night, is that moment. That single moment when the bad guy with a gun had become simply Barry. 

Barry Mashburn whose wife had been his life, stripped away from him in one moment. 

Moments. 

A sort of nostalgia had drifted into his eyes, a sad faraway gaze came over him as he looked away and spoke about her. About this woman, just a woman. Someone she might've seen once in a coffee shop, a subway, perhaps at a newspaper stand, or maybe even in that little bookstore. Maybe she liked to go there on some days, maybe Barry chose it for that reason. 

She spends her nights dreaming about those hours she spent in there. 

She wonders if the rest of her life will be measured in degrees, always relating back to that day in some instance. 

She wonders about Jack; wonders if he would've spoken about Marie in that same tone, that same look of sadness and regret swimming beneath the pools of his grief-stricken eyes. If his voice would've broken away as he fought the emotions just speaking of her would bring. 

Her phone begins to ring in the tiny apartment, its shrill alert rising louder and louder, beckoning her to answer. She doesn't want to speak, to fake a happiness she doesn't feel, an "I'm okay" she can't form between the sandpaper that has become her lips and the lead that has become her tongue. 

It's raining and she hobbles over to the window, pushing aside the pain until it's a dull throb, choosing to ignore the limb that will always be this baggage she carries around. 

The answering machine clicks and his voice floats across to her, concern twisting between the general inquiry about her health, about where she is and why she's not answering. 

She wants him to come, to take her away again from this prison she's erected around herself. 

She wants him to lie and say it'll be all right because she knows it won't and for one night, she wants to sleep easy. 

The rain comes in torrents now, pounding a tune against the glass. Fitting, she supposes. Sunny days are for happy times. Rain comes with loneliness and depression and wanting what you can't have. 

It occurs to her then, as she dwells on the moments that have been her life, she's never actually been down there. 

Never been down to that place where the ashes of the dead litter the ground and speak only in the ears of those they left behind. 

* 

Perhaps a flower would've been appropriate, a sentimental gift bearing all the words necessary to convey what you can't form into words. 

There are moments when words just aren't enough. 

The rain is steady now; not heavy, nor light. Choosing instead to settle between two polars and simply just come down in a traditional fashion, soaking the ground and her hair and sliding between her fingers as she leans on the rail. 

She doesn't know what she expects. The silence is familiar, eerie in its scope. She remembers first coming here many years ago; first seeing the big city, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Rockefeller Center. 

Then turning, a smile starting at the tips of her cheeks as her twenty-year-old mind formulated one single thought. 

That these Twin Towers were so big and grand and much more symbolic and great on a scale she couldn't even begin to comprehend at that stage in her life. She remembers walking inside once, taking the elevator to the top and looking down upon a city she would come to know, to be a part of, to mold into as the years rolled slowly past. 

She remembers how the wind came at the top; different, somehow, then being on the ground. It was liberating and free, telling you all that mattered right now was you and this moment, this simple moment when you stood above a city, above earth and all its boundaries, above the tainted workings of a humanity you wanted to save. 

When you stood above life and wished to be brought down again, to simply feel once more the moment when you first tasted love and life in their purest forms. 

She remembers all of this as she stands in the rain, drops running between her lips, soaking her hair, and blurring her vision, mixing with the tears she doesn't bother to wipe away. 

Perhaps everything is tainted in some way and even the purest, happiest moments can never last forever. 

She thinks of this now as she floats above the hallowed ground, wishing she could've known them, known who they were and who they loved, who they wanted to be. She thinks maybe she saw one of them once on her day off; maybe at the bookstore or the theater or the bar where Fran works. 

"I'm sorry." 

It seems hollow and empty and she thinks of all the great poets and writers again and how their words seem to escape them when they need them most. Because words never seem tangible in our grief. 

She thinks of Annie Miller and Andy Deaver and Anwar Samir; Greg Pritchard and Chet Collins and Josh Abrams; Barry Mashburn and Jack Malone. 

She thinks of those lost, those found, those drifting between life and death, and those without hope. She thinks about herself and wonders how she fits into life, how she came to be in this moment. 

Many seem to simply exist with no real focus or purpose or tie to this world. 

Samantha eases herself down carefully, sitting as best she can against the hard metal and thinks for a while against the rain. She thinks too much because it's lonely. 

She misses him when she's lonely. 

Moments. 

Life is wrapped up in moments and memories; of hello's and goodbye's; of letting go and holding on and wishing for something more beneath the depths of time and love and darkness threatening to spill over and take it all away in one instant, one moment. 

Moments that define you. 

Moments that make you who you are. 

Moments that you want to forget, above all else, because pain is too real and raw, and it's easier to run away. 

Moments you want to hold to tightly and never let go. 

Because Jack is beautiful and alive and perfect. 

Because Jack makes her feel and want; makes her remember all those moments and float, once more, above the tainted world and all its flaws. He makes her heart beat, he makes her come alive. 

Even the purest, happiest moments can't last forever. 

She remembers him. 

She forgets to breathe. 

* 

FIN 


	2. Jack

**A/N:** Huge thanks to Dev for giving me some feedback before I posted this. Your comments are, as always, invaluable. 

To my mom and brother, because we're all going through some shit right now and I know, deep in my heart, that everything will be all right if we're together. Even if we don't have a happy ending. 

To my Uncle...our talk really helped me to focus and realize that I have support through this ordeal. I can't wait to see you in Disney soon. Thanks for helping me also to realize that I have the most important things in life: good family, good friends, and Bruce Springsteen! 

To Sylvie, Summer, and Karen because our huge "family" get-together tonight was just what we all needed. 

And to my dad...I'm praying for you. I miss you. Whatever happens between you and mom...I'll always love you. 

* 

He remembers his father first, because scars seem to always begin and stem from childhood. Most of the time, a void existed where a man should've been. A man to teach him the essential things: riding a bike, how to swim, how to shave, how to flirt and kiss and be a man. But he wasn't there. Not enough. Not ever. His presence, when there, was largely felt as an intrusion upon a perfectly normal household and his stays were never short enough as the years went by. 

And so Jack Malone, like all those before him, grew up and moved on and left that little house with barely a regret, save for the one where he still wished for a father. 

Marie came next. They were so young, he remembers. Young and naive, and perhaps a little idealistic with big dreams and big hopes for that quintessential little family life in a safe little city where everyone was happy and nothing went wrong and they could grow old together, watching their children play in the front yard. 

He doesn't remember when it happened, but Marie suddenly stopped being everything. He remembers once, in a period of his life, being excited about the prospect of seeing her. It stopped quite suddenly and soon a new face filled his perception, a new want and need: Samantha Spade. 

He suddenly found himself excited about seeing her, being near her, watching her mind work through their cases day by day and week by week and soon, work became home. 

So he starts to forgets the little things first. 

The scent of her hair, various intonations of her voice as myriads of emotions flood her mind; the way her eyes sparkle, for a brief second, when the light catches her irises in just the right spot at just the right moment; the way her breath comes in erratic, short gasps as he spreads kisses upon her soft skin. 

Then he starts to forget the broader things, the more important details. Her favorite song, her favorite color; all the necessary and vital little statistics that, when combined, simply make up everything he knows to be her. 

So he forgets the little things and like a chain reaction, the rest of the pieces just fall into oblivion until he starts to forget she was ever there to begin with. 

He's fought against memories his entire adult life, straining to give the fractured components of his existence a tiny semblance of normalcy. 

Marriage, he reflects, is more than just spoken vows and a written contract on a fallible piece of paper. It's more than just duty, more than he can give. 

Marriage is, at its core, love. A simple phrase, yet the most complex of human emotions. 

And sometimes, when you need it, when you cling and grasp and want it more than anything, sometimes, those are the moments when love just isn't enough. 

* 

The cold steel clashed with the rising heat of his skin, a reminder of the thick, sultry hair hanging in the room. For a split second, his mortality flashed before him, flickering images of his life in his head; a myriad of memories and moments all merged together in a spectrum of colors like a kaleidoscope. 

Her face was there, her presence still in the room. She had nearly died tonight and the prospect of that outcome haunted him, he suddenly realized, more perhaps than the idea of his marriage ending. Because Barry spoke of a wife he'd immortalized in memories and moments; she was perfect and real and alive to him even when she was gone. 

She was something Marie had once been; once many years ago. She was something Marie suddenly wasn't anymore. Because in that split second when his life flashed before him, he wasn't thinking of the woman who was still tied to him by the band on his finger; in that moment, that brief moment, he thought of Samantha. 

He watches Barry now; watches a man let go of his other half, his reason for living. He watches Barry let go of Nicole and the pieces start to crumble. The reality slams into him, his walls tumble and his chest heaves in and out, struggling through the pain, the knowledge that Nicole really won't be coming home tonight. 

He watches Barry let go, watches the police escort him away, and walks away from that tiny little bookstore where a piece of him was almost lost forever. 

He thinks of Marie. 

He thinks of Samantha. 

He can't let go. 

* 

"How's she doing?" 

Danny's head shoots up from the kneeling position he's taken in the perfunctory hospital chair. 

"She's in recovery now. She's uh -- she lost a lot of blood, she's really pale, but...she's alive." 

It's a fact he dwells on not for the first time, certainly not the last. Perhaps this will be his life around her now; each moment measured by the sheer miracle of her existence. 

Each moment spent wondering if the next will bring death. 

Each moment he wonders if she'll still be there. 

If she'll still be his. 

* 

The blood doesn't wash out. 

Not from his clothes, his memories, his heart. It's nestled into the fabric of his being, its crimson stain blemishing his thoughts and making each moment with his wife so much harder than it should be. Her hand stirs the coffee, drawing idle circles in the hot liquid as she stares at the front page of the newspaper, pretending to read the headlines, avoiding his gaze as he watches her. 

His daughters play in the living room, their laughter filters through the walls as they pay half attention to an old cartoon. 

This is a familiar scene to him. Not comforting, though. The air feels tense, the emotions forced. Conversation is curt and cold and little feeling comes through the words. It's false. It's easy. 

Easier to run. 

Easier to leave behind this cold room. 

Easier to love Samantha. 

And this, he knows, is why he can't. 

* 

"Have you seen her yet?" 

Vivian's voice sidles up beside him as his hand spreads various papers across the conference table. He pushes his glasses further up his nose, turning to face his friend. 

"No, I'm going there tonight." 

His hand unconsciously travels to his ring, twisting it left and right as he sits there at the conference table, thinking about this case, thinking about Samantha. 

"She's different, Jack." 

He stops his fidgeting, looking away from Vivian's all too-knowing gaze. 

"She almost died, Viv, of course she's different." 

"No, Jack. This wasn't just some ordinary robbery or car accident, or other near-death experience. She was in a hostage situation and I think something happened in there that she's holding inside." 

He thinks of Barry. He thinks of the confusion in his eyes, the way his finger shook against the trigger, the way his voice broke in fear at the realization of the enormity of the situation he'd brought upon himself. He thinks of the emotions Barry evoked in his rants, thinks of the emotions Samantha must've felt. 

She was alone. 

Jack still had Marie. Whether he always would was still up for question, but the fact was that when all was said and done, he had gone to Marie; he had someone to go home to. She didn't. 

"I'm going to see her tonight, Viv." 

He moves away, away from the pointed stare of his friend. 

Samantha -- in those hours she'd endured, in that moment she'd been shot -- had been wholly alone. 

Something happened in there, all right. 

Nothing would be the same. 

* 

It's quiet in the room, save for the beeps and hisses of the various monitors she's hooked up to. He hesitates on the threshold, unsure of his presence, not wanting to disturb her slumber. He can't turn away, however, and his feet shuffle his weary body towards the vacant chair next to her bed, sliding in gently. 

He's wearing simple clothes, bearing his soul before her. 

"You should be asleep." 

She whispers. He leans forward to see her, a smile forming at the corner of his lips. 

"So should you." 

Her eyes flutter for a moment. 

"You should be at home, Jack." 

It stings him. He knows it's true and that's why it hurts. 

"So should you, Sam." He whispers in a voice that conveys all of the guilt he's been carrying around since that day when a simple drop should've been just that: simple. 

"Let's not do this, Jack. It wasn't your fault." 

He doesn't speak for a moment, his eyes travel up and down her body, painfully stopping on her leg. 

"I heard you were in surgery for two hours." 

She nods, rolling onto her back so she can see him better in the darkness. 

"It nicked the artery, so I was lucky, but there was a lot of tissue damage and it fractured my femur. So I'll be Samantha 'hop-a-long' Spade for a while." 

"Does it hurt?" 

The truth. 

"Yeah." 

He leans closer now, his weathered hand running through her silky hair in graceful strokes, willing a fog to take her away briefly, away from him, from this pain. 

"Barry told us where Sydney was. I think he's going to be okay." 

Her eyes flutter again, his caresses easing her into a misty semi-consciousness she's trying to fight away. 

"And what about us, Jack?" 

Her voice is soft now, faint and fading with each stroke. He waits a minute to answer, her eyelids slowly drifting shut. 

"I don't know, Sam." 

He wishes he did. 

* 

He doesn't know what he expects. Maybe that familiar yellow tape to still be strung across the entrance; maybe the blinds to be closed again, walling off any attempts to see inside; maybe a heat so strong you can feel it emanating from the streets. 

Maybe he expects her to still be in there; half-alive, half-dead, half gone on a path in her life forged with lies and deceit and betrayal and doubts of love. Maybe he expects her to still need him. Maybe he expects her to never have gone there in the first place. 

It would've been much simpler, he reflects, if he'd gone in there; if he'd done the drop. His own mortality, though starkly frightening, was something he found he could handle on a level much better than he ever could handle hers. 

It would've been much simpler to never have lied to her on that bench because his heart beat heavier as he thought of it; the moment he lied, the moment he pushed her away. The moment she would die believing his falsehood; believing he had forgotten her, had shoved her aside, had fallen back in love with Marie. 

Loving Samantha was never the problem. 

Having to stop loving her was. 

So he doesn't know what he expects, but he goes inside anyway. A woman, young and shy, stands behind the register. Her head comes up from the magazine she's reading, her eyes darting nervously around the room as though she's expecting it to happen all over again. 

Only two other people muddle around the shelves, picking up and putting down various books, scanning over the aisles, looking at Jack as though he's some foreign entity. 

His eyes immediately travel to that spot where he saw her. A table is there now, covered in new releases. He stands over it, picturing the puddle of blood, her prone form. The images come of their own volition, snapping him like a whip. It's the scene that's haunted his dreams, the scene he can never escape. 

He can never escape her. 

In the moment he entered, his mind was sure of one thing: he loved her. In that moment, he always would. 

He can never leave this little bookstore. 

* 

His steps are solemn and empty, his gaze falls on her apartment door as he walks away from her. He doesn't want to say goodbye, he meant what he said. His love for her was meant to be. It just happened at the wrong time, the wrong place. He goes back to Marie, unsure of his place there, unsure of his future. 

He doesn't know what she wants anymore; what kind of change she expects, what kind of demands she asks that he can't meet. He closes the door; the kids are asleep and she's nestled in the chair, half her attention devoted to the TV, the other half devoted to her life, thinking about it, wondering what to do. 

He sits near her, waiting for acknowledgement. 

They do this dance around each other; one gives, the other takes, back and forth and back and forth and it's this same bullshit routine day in and day out until his life is nothing more than a play. 

He still loves her. 

But love, with its complexity, brings nothing less than confusion in its wake. Love, he realizes, is more than just rings and and vows; more than petty words; more than being who you should be instead of who you want to be. 

There's an inherent difference, he realizes, between loving someone and being in love. His crossroads have brought him here, to this cold, empty room, and his mind works through its functions, toiling over Marie and Samantha and which one he can keep and which one he can't; which one he can't say goodbye to. 

"What are we doing here, Jack?" 

He sighs and rubs his eyes. "God, Marie, I don't know." 

She leans forward, staring him down. 

"Jack...have you missed me, have you missed us?" 

He can't answer. He doesn't know what to do, what to say anymore. 

Her eyes flicker in the dark, a sad smile crosses her features. 

"I'm going to bed." 

She stands up and pauses for a moment, a faint memory of their past flickering before her, and then moves away from him. 

He doesn't follow. 

* 

The rain pounds against the glass of the telephone booth. He needs to see her now. 

He's alone. 

She's alone. 

They're both drifting and wandering and inevitably, they find each other. He's concerned that she doesn't answer, worried that it's finally happened...she's left him. He steps out from the booth, calls a cab and goes to her. A thousand thoughts run through his brain but he focuses on his one intent: to get to her. 

* 

His back rests against her door, waiting for her. She exits a cab and hobbles clumsily on her crutches. Her eyes squint against the rain as she sees him there before her. His arms wrap around her and their bodies fall against each other, all the longing and need released from their bodies. 

His strong arm wraps around her chilled body as he leads her inside. 

He reaches for some towels, pulling them out of her hallway closet, and wraps them around her, leading her onto her couch. 

They're both silent for a moment until she speaks. 

"I went down there, Jack." 

This is familiar to him; their conversation from earlier plays across his mind. 

"The bookstore?" 

She shakes her head in denial and suddenly it registers with him. The haunted, hollow look in her eyes speaks volumes. She went there and she was never the same. 

"Why did you come back?" 

He sits next to her now, drawing her shivering body to his. 

"Because I still believe in love." 

He doesn't know if that's enough, but for now, it's all he can think to say. A few broken sobs escape from her lips and her body begins to shake even more. 

His lips brush against hers as he runs a hand through her hair. 

"I waited for you." 

It's a whisper, a vow. 

It's enough. 

Enough to simply exist. 

* 

FIN 


End file.
